Drak Yerpa

Drak Yerpa is a cave retreat complex, near to Lhasa and famous for its
place in the history of Buddhism’s takeover as the dominant religion
of Tibet. In the 7th Century King Tsongsten Gampo came there to do
divinations to determine the appropriate location for the Jokhang
(which is situated in the middle of the old city of Lhasa).
Guru Rinpoche is said to have meditated there, and left a number of
‘rangjung’ formations, supposedly self-formed rock formations that
look like his footprints, handprints, etc.
 
Drak Yerpa was, of course, an important religious site even before the
Buddhist revolution. It had to have been — why else would it have
been of such interest to the Buddhists? Its location was also prime
for a religious retreat: high caves, and ample room for many people,
yet quite close to a fertile valley. Thus it would have been
relatively easy to support meditators.
 
As of a few years ago, a new road leads up to Drak Yerpa from the main
cut-off. It snakes upwards in sweeping switchbacks, through what had
been an ancient sod meadow but is now gravel and retaining walls. A
dusty parking lot, a few chow mein shops, and a ticket office await at
the top. If one can outrun the ticket collector, one can leave that
money in the temples that pepper the hillside, and with the monks and
nuns that maintain them. Most of the temples were built around cave
sanctuaries: superstructures in front hold assembly halls, a shrine or
two, and room for devotional practice. In the back, a passageway
might lead to a cave, with shrines, butter lamps, and someone to tell
the story of the place.
 
Drak Yerpa isn’t really a tourist stop yet, but one monk estimated it
sees about 1000 people each day — mostly daytrippers from Lhasa,
well-to-do Tibetans who come to light some incense, say a prayer, and
have a picnic on a nearby hill. There are no practitioners there
anymore — just enough monastics to keep the shrines open but not
enough to practice and meditate on the teachings. For some of them it
is too busy for extended meditation. Most visitors only come to pay
respects; the ability to perform ceremonies or give teachings is not
there. The young visitors, especially, exude a sense of connection to
their religion but it is clear they haven’t had the benefit of growing
up steeped deeply in its philosophical teachings — beyond that which
seeps into the rich everyday culture. Still, the connection is
powerful and it is inspiring to see young people with their friends,
multi-generational families, and solo pilgrims make a day out of a
visit to this wonderful place.

Quick stop in Nepal

I’d been hearing stories all spring about the situation in Nepal.  Minimal electrical production was commanding load shedding of 18 hours  or more each day, water shortages, social unrest, government failure  to form a coalition, continued failure to integrate the Maoist and royal armies, or to create a new constitution.

Flying to Kathmandu on Monday, the plane crossed the rural and mountainous areas of Nepal, which look almost empty from the high vantage point of the plane. Then, dropping into the Kathmandu valley, it is all of a sudden back-to-back residential and business areas. The whole valley is full. 2.5 million people now live here, compared to a fraction a few years before.

The weather was blessedly cooler than the Indian plains, and in many ways Kathmandu felt the way it has been described by foreigners for decades: hospitable, friendly, full of culture and history, interesting places, art and artisans.

In some ways, it is still all those things. But there is an overall deterioration of morale and infrastructure too — even since what I noticed last fall. Petty money-making schemes are on the rise, from the oldest cheap-taxi-ride-if-you-go-to-the-hotel-where-I-get-commission scam, which was rare in Nepal and is now blatant at the airport, to a  new service tax at restaurants, which is compounded with other taxes to bring the rate to 24% for every meal.

The biggest challenge right now is uncertainty. Day-to-day, things may run as normal. But one never knows when that will change. A is a universal truth, I suppose.

[Having started this post a few days ago but never finishing it, I am now posting from Lhasa -- arrived here last night after a grueling 2-day overland trip here.]

Ritually

Somehow it became mid-May, and I have left Dharamsala.  I had a wonderful last few days in Dharamsala and a very special send-off.  10 hours of hard driving brought us to Dolanji, the epicenter in exile of the Bon religion (Tibet’s native religion, now so-called 5th school of Buddhism), for a few days.  An overnight haul to the Delhi airport, then yesterday onward to Kathmandu.

In Dolanji, the idea of ritual came up in myriad conversations.  What is a ritual, why do we do them, what is the benefit or downside.  We have rituals for almost every part of life, that vary depending on the culture.  American kids learn to brush their teeth twice a day.  Indian kids serve tea to guests on a little tray.  We do work before play, give thanks before we eat.  We hold doors for others, greet new people with a handshake, a bow, a how-do-you-do.  These are all rituals, though of course the most obvious rituals take place within religion.

In the most direct Buddhist and Bon teachings, there is nothing to learn, nothing to strive for.  There is simply interconnectedness and space.  Yet both religions are full of ritual.  And why?  Rituals and ceremonies are expensive.  They are distracting, taking monks and lay communities (and resources) away from their otherwise day-to-day study and work.  Some ritual texts take a week or more just to read through, let alone perform.  They have special requirements, perhaps special foods, objects.  Sometimes grueling schedules, requiring round-the-clock attention. They are powerful, though.  They must be, or we would have stopped doing them.

I have long been skeptical of the ritual side of these religions, thinking that there is some loss of the whole point of the teachings if they’re wrapped up in ceremony.  It is true that many parts of religion have become over-ritualized, with not enough emphasis on the core practices and too much emphasis on ceremony, the conferring of blessings, etc.  Lately, however, I’ve been thinking of ritual in another way.  It is clear that for most people, in order for some concept to sink in, they must engage that concept tactically — reading about it is not enough.  Same goes for religion.  Buddhist and Bon doctrines encourage the processing of teachings by hearing, contemplating, and meditating.  And by putting them into action. There are different meditation techniques, because different techniques encourage the facing of different desired experiences.  Likewise, performing a ritual text brings it to life.  It makes the participants slow down, feel the outcomes and consequences of the ceremony.  Then, the material is remembered, integrated, digested, discussed, and it sinks in at a deep level.

Ode to a Chiku

India has many lovely and surprising fruits. Most of those that are grown in mountainous Himachal Pradesh — in Kinnaur and Kullu and a few more local — are delicious but short in season. There’s a real ‘now you see ‘em, now you don’t’ feel. A  lot of these fruits are not readily found in the West.  Not because they’re not growable there, but perhaps not amenable to the requirements of grocery store lifestyle.

One of these is the chiku, a wintertime yield from southern India (and also Latin America, and parts of southeast Asia). Chikus are not a beautiful fruit, not showy or appealing to the eye like an apple or a mango. They look more like potatoes, and the insides are a soft brown mush. And they are finicky. Eaten one day too early, they’re cheek-puckering sour and the fibers catch in the throat. When they’re ripe, they turn soft and are easily crushed under the weight of just a single other chiku. They have to be monitored daily until they are ripe, at which time they have to be eaten immediately.

The flavor is not vibrant like other tropical fruits, say, banana and papaya. It’s not floral like a fig. It’s more an earthy, brown sugar flavor. There is no ‘proper’ way to eat one. The skins are thin and the insides lack structural integrity, so they can’t really be peeled and served. Nor can the skins be eaten. They have a few almond-shaped large seeds inside, that must be avoided.

Yet this is one of my favorite fruits. It demands to be taken on its own terms. And when it is respected in this way, it rewards handsomely. I baby them until they are ready to eat, then place two thumbs at the top and press into the fruit, splitting it in half. The insides do separate into a manner of sections, so pieces can be broken off, seeds removed, and eaten. Preferably outside, in the shade.

Last December chikus were available by the cart-load in Delhi and a few kilos made it with us up to Dharamsala (though not entirely unscathed). When I arrived back here in March, they were to be found in the market, but only rarely and quite small and hard. Every once in awhile we would procure some, and often cut into them too soon, which is highly unpleasant (see above). Hence the thumb-opening technique. If they’re ripe, they open easily. If any force is required, they’re not ready, and then the eater is advised to stay away.

Last weekend I was in Mumbai for a bit of work. One of the fringe benefits of having to go to Mumbai was the opportunity to partake of much more plentiful fruit. Chikus the size of baseballs were available. A few hardy ones were found, brought back to the hotel, and then carefully hand-carried all the way back to Dharamsala. The last ones were eaten yesterday. Yum!